


Let These Hard Times Pass

by rizcriz



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, bc of that FUCKING season 4 promo that dropped today
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 12:29:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17100617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: Eliot’s upset about something he did as the monster.And I am upset about that fucking promo so here have some hurt/comfort god damn it





	Let These Hard Times Pass

Quentin smiles up at him, eyes shining, his hand coming up to stroke his cheek. “It’s okay, El,” he breathes.

He’s been back for weeks, and still it feels so strange; Quentin looking up at him, and actually seeing him. No anger or fear or anything in his eyes. It’s just Quentin, and he’s just Eliot. No monster, no danger. Two people who can actually see one another. Be with one another.

Eliot swallows thickly, bringing his own hand up, sliding along the side of Quentin’s throat, and back, to tangle his fingers in his hair.

It’s what he always does.

But.

Quentin _flinches_.

It’s barely a second. Barely even a reaction, because he’s leaning into the touch so resolutely not even a moment later, that Eliot almost thinks he’s imagined it. But he hasn’t, because his memories are just as vivid and haunting as Quentin’s. He remembers his hands wrapping around Quentin’s throat. How much pressure the he—the monster—applied—

He lets his hand fall to his side abruptly. Quentin’s brow furrows in disappointment as he stares up at him.

He must see it, because these days Eliot’s not so great at hiding his feelings anymore. No longer comfortable in hiding any part of himself. Not in his mind, not in the dark—not anywhere. There’s too much to be lost for him to hide it away.

Slowly, Quentin takes his free hand, and slides it down Eliot’s shoulder. His movements are sure, as his fingertips glide down the expanse of his arm, until he can wrap them around the back of Eliot’s hand. He maintains eye contact, almost challenging, as he pulls their hands back up, and gently places Eliot’s hand back where it’d been before.

Quentin holds it there for a moment, until Eliot’s fingers twitch, and finally weave their way back into Quentin’s hair. Then Quentin lets go, his hand dropping to Eliot’s shoulder.

“It wasn’t you,” he says after a long moment. His Adam’s apple bobs, and he repeats himself, firmer. “It wasn’t _you_.”

Eliot let’s out a shaky breath and nods, leaning down to press his forehead to Quentin’s. He closes his eyes and Quentin leans into it.

 _It_ wasn’t _him_.

_It wasn’t him._

He opens his eyes, finds Quentin staring, cross eyed and worried, back at him.

“It wasn’t me.”

Quentin nods, his own hand coming to weave into the hair at the base of Eliot’s skull. “Exactly.”

“I—“

“No,” Quentin shakes his head, yanking at the hair too gently for it to hurt, but hard enough to make a point. “It wasn’t you, Eliot.” His chin wobbles and he leans up to brush his nose against Eliot’s. “You’re good, and you’re back. And it’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay. Okay?”

Eliot nods after a moment, nose bumping up against Quentin’s again. “Okay,” he murmurs, swallowing. “ _Okay_.”

Just because he doesn’t believe it now, doesn’t mean he won’t in the future. Because Quentin’s right.

_It wasn’t me._


End file.
